


Growing to Silver

by Star_Crow



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Children, Family Dynamics, Future Fic, Growing Old, Hand of the King Davos, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon on the Iron Throne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Crow/pseuds/Star_Crow
Summary: Davos had never felt such pride as when Jon ascended those steps. The direwolf had followed in his footsteps, laid at his feet. The dragon had sat beside and watched with ember red eyes, daring anyone to take a step too close to the last Targaryen.No one did. No one would. From the howling cold of the North to the scorching sands of Dorne, they were all loyal to this boy and his throne.Or: Jon gets his father's throne. It's the heaviest burden of them all, but Davos is there.





	Growing to Silver

Davos Seaworth had lived a long, long life. 

He’d said that so many years ago. He didn’t remember the exact number. Davos had seen such change. He’d seen four kings and a queen rule the realm. He’d seen four kings and a queen die. He saw the other claimants fall, too. Robb Stark, the Baratheons, even Daenerys in the end. He watched them all go, until there was only one left. He saw Jon (or Jaehaerys, his head could never decide) fulfill the prophecies.

Davos had always felt for Jon. He who had climbed from the lowest crevasse in society, the brand of bastardy, to rule all the Seven Kingdoms with honor unmatched by any of his predecessors. 

It had made his heart twinge to even think it, when he had memories of Matthos still fresh in his mind, but Davos had never felt such pride as when Jon ascended those steps. The direwolf had followed in his footsteps, laid at his feet. The dragon had sat beside and watched with ember red eyes, daring anyone to take a step too close to the last Targaryen.

No one did. No one would. From the howling cold of the North to the scorching sands of Dorne, they were all loyal to this boy and his throne. 

A man of twenty three, Davos had had to remind himself repeatedly as he looked over Jon with the crown firmly on his head. Still, always, a brave boy in Davos’s eyes.

“I take it I am no longer needed, Your Grace.” Davos said to his king that same night, when Jon had excused himself from the festivities and retreated to his bedchambers.

“And why would you think that, Ser Davos?” Jon had said quietly, gazing out over the balcony.

Kings Landing had never been so alive when the Onion Knight looked out. Even in the wreckage of their city, the people were celebrating. Drinking and dancing and whoring in the streets. Why wouldn’t they? The Long Night was over. The walkers were defeated and gone. The Prince That Was Promised had come. He was their king. Tomorrow had never looked so bright to the common folk. It was only for the man that looked upon them from above, with an almost envious glint in his eye, that had to worry about delivering the tomorrow.

“Well, Your Grace-”

“It’s Jon. I want you to call me that, since no one else will anymore.” 

Davos raised an eyebrow, his eyes flickering to the newly forged crown. “Not a fan of Jaehaerys Targaryen?” 

“My mother gave me that name. She had no idea who, or what, I would become,” The younger man blinked and the sudden flash of anger in his eyes was gone, leaving only the gentle flickering of the firelight. “Jaehaerys … Jaehaerys was her ideal of a son.”

“Don’t you want to be her ideal?”

Jon’s voice was flat, stern, when he spoke. “Jaehaerys was never real. He never existed. Jon is who I really am.”

In the silence that followed, Davos scrambled frantically for something to say. He always had something to say, but not to Jon, stuck in his eternal sadness. Daenerys had been his last refuge, both as a lover and someone who could try to understand. He had no one like that now. No one that could possibly quantify even a teaspoon of his old soul, empathise with his burden. Luckily for Davos, Jon had filled the pause for him. 

“Where will you go if I release you from my service, Ser Davos?”

“I haven’t seen my wife, Marya, or my younger sons in several years, Your Grace,” Guilt tugged at his stomach familiarly. “I think I’ll sail home to Cape Wrath, see my family and my home there. After that, I’ve yet to decide.” 

Jon nodded slightly. “Good. Then you are free to leave. Take any ship you please.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He bowed at the waist.

Davos had barely moved a fraction an inch towards the door before Jon called him back. “I haven’t dismissed you yet, ser.”

“Once your affairs in the Stormlands are in order, you are to return to the Red Keep with your family and your belongings,” Davos frowned as Jon turned away from the balcony. “For you will be serving me as Hand of the King.”

It took a huge force of will for Davos to bite back the multiple responses and a few seconds more for him to organise a coherent response in his head. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but my service to you was to offer council in difficult times,” he said steadily. “You’ve now no shortage of honorable men to advise you. You’re surrounded by some of the best minds in all of Westeros. Those that survived, mind you. Tyrion Lannister himself, to name one. I am a crabber’s son, an ex-smuggler, a man who served a usurper to your family's throne. What could I possibly have to offer you as a Hand?”

Jon had just smiled at him. The first genuine one he’d seen in a while. 

For all the years that Davos had lived, he should have known better than to think that his role as Hand of the King would be the start and end of his place in the reign of Jaehaerys III Targaryen. Marya became a lady of the court, his sons all had turns as Jon’s pages or squires. House Seaworth was favoured by Jon. Everyone thought it, perhaps some resented it, but no one ever questioned it. The court could overlook a flaw on the king’s behalf, since he had saved their lives.

There was little else to overlook with Jon. He ruled well. He took the words of his advisers as he should but used his own heart, too. He could be generous and merciful, but also principled. He was loved. The peace was kept.

And then, when the first child, a prince, was born, Davos was appointed to the role of chaperone. 

In many ways, this task was a much heavier responsibility. The Hand’s office wasn’t at all personal. It was just a job. To care for the prince, the heir to the throne, was something else. Eddard Targaryen was a precious gift to the people, real proof that the dynasty could be stable once again. More important to Davos, Eddard was absolutely the most important thing in Jon’s life. Davos had never seen such love in Jon’s eyes than when he looked upon his precious son, one that he thought he wouldn't have the chance to sire. 

“He gets bigger by the day, that one.” Davos remarked one day.

The throne room was emptied of the court. Jon was still in his seat on the Iron Throne with Davos at his right. A familiar sight, but for the baby prince perched on his father’s lap. And Eddard was growing stronger still. The red-faced, squalling bundle that Jon had temporarily relinquished to him on that fateful night was gone. 

In his place was a boy that looked so strangely like his father. 

Dark hair against winter skin, with deep brown eyes to match. The differences were slight. There was not a single curl to be found on his raven head. Eddard was not so somber as Jon. His smiles were easily given to any and all who showed him the same affections. 

“It’s terrifying. My days are numbered.”

Davos took a breath in. “If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I’ve a gift for him.” 

Two pairs of black eyes followed Davos's hand as he reached into the inside of his cloak. 

“I didn’t know whether to make a dragon or a direwolf so I tried both,” Davos extended the carving out to Eddard almost shyly. “The wolf turned out much better.”

The prince took the wolf from his chaperone’s hands into his own. His tiny hands were gentle, brushing over the smooth wood. He had the same look of wonderment on his face that he did when he saw the real thing, Jon’s own direwolf. Eddard was perhaps the only person that Ghost would tolerate such excessive petting from. He was the same with Drogon, too. While many courtiers cowered at the sight of them, Eddard had never been afraid of either beast. 

“All the toys that were bought for him,” Jon grinned as Eddard hugged the wolf to his chest. “And that’s the only thing he’s shown the slightest bit of interest in.”

With each new child of Jon’s that arrived, the carvings seemed to grow a little better. Davos carved many wolves. The first creation for Eddard. The second for the little Princess Rhaenys, made with ebony fur and painted lilac eyes. To match her twin Aegon, another wolf with purple eyes but this time carved from the wood of the ash tree. The third son, Jaehaerys, another white wolf but with stern iron eyes. For the youngest brothers, Robb and Rickon, were carved from mahogany and walnut.

The people invented a quatrain for the children. Jon detested it. It was never recited within reach of his ears, but it was whispered behind closed doors.

Eddard for the man who was never free.

Jaehaerys for the man he was meant to be.

Robb and Rickon for the brothers lost.

Rhaenys and Aegon for the siblings cost.

As if the gods believed Jon had suffered enough, he never had to face losing a child. In fact, each of his offspring grew well. Eddard the heir. Rhaenys and Robb the warriors. Aegon and Rickon the scholars. Jaehaerys the politician. 

To his disbelief, Davos lived every year to see them rise. He chaperoned all five brothers since they were babes in arms to young men at arms. Marya was put in charge of the princess but Davos doted over her just the same. Jon’s little girl, lovely Rhaenys who fought as fiercely as any one of her brothers. Better than her brothers in truth. Jon refused to let the world fail her as it had Lyanna, and Arya even. Jon did not play favorites, he loved his children equally, but the softest spot in his heart would always belong to Rhaenys.

Eddard, Rhaenys, Aegon, Jaehaerys, Robb and Rickon. The perfect six, as there had once been six in Winterfell. The perfect family to hold up their father’s order when he was gone. 

Joined by another, an unexpected seventh, just days after Eddard’s eighteenth name day. 

He had a seventh child, a second daughter. The sister that Rhaenys had accepted long ago that she wouldn’t have. No, Jon did not lose a child. This time, though, he lost his queen. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” Davos took one hand off of his cane to rest on the king’s shoulder.

Jon shook his head sharply. He didn’t want to talk about it yet. Instead he looked down at the bundle in his arms as he tipped the rocking chair back and forth lightly. This one was more fragile than the others, Grand Maester Tarly had told him hushed tones in the corridor. Even the twins, born weeks before their proper time, had been in better health. The child's elfin fingers reached out and clenched around the smallest one that Jon had to offer. So tiny, this one. She was a fighter though, Tarly said. She been given life and she was clinging to it with every ounce of strength she had.

“I never expected to be a father again. I’ve honored everyone I wanted to,” Jon spoke suddenly. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw from the sobbing Davos couldn't help but have heard. “You name this one for me, Ser Davos.”

Jon had been shocking Davos every moment since he’d met him. This decision still took him by surprise. The right to name his own daughter surrendered. 

“Let’s see the little lady then.”

Davos cleared his throat, stepped closer to the chair as Jon shifted back to reveal the child in his arms. She seemed more a doll than a living thing, were it not for her eyes. They were so alive. Wide, deep and innocent, brown like rich chocolate. Davos knew the eyes he were looking into were a result of Jon’s strong northern heritage, eyes that the Starks had borne for a thousand years, but he couldn’t help but think of another princess he’d known with the same look.

“I think you know the name I’m going to suggest, Your Grace.”

Jon was so tired. It was in every line in his face, the silver streaks that stood out in his dark mane. “Shireen.” he murmured.

Speaking as a ruler, this would be taken in bad taste. Jon didn’t believe it but a Targaryen king naming his daughter, a trueborn princess, after a member of the house that had nearly destroyed his family was odd in this game.

Just this once, for Davos’s sake, for Shireen Baratheon's memory, Jon could allow himself to not care about the consequences.

This Shireen did live. She did grow into a young lady. This time, Shireen was loved. Nothing was worth as much to Jon as Shireen and her elder siblings. She wasn’t no fighter like her sister. She was more mild, sweet and gentle like her namesake had been. 

Davos counted himself lucky to last as long as he did. Most had not. Eddard was a man grown by the time Davos started to ail. The heir was twenty two, his household set up at Dragonstone with his new Dornish bride. Rhaenys was a princess on the Iron Islands, the bride of Queen Yara’s only son, due to give birth to Jon's first grandchild in barely a month. Her twin had gone to the Citadel to train as a maester, to one day serve his brother who would be king. Jaehaerys and Robb had gone, too, serving as wards at Casterly Rock and the Eyrie respectively. They had all come back to the Keep when their father sent them the news.

They had all been at his side. It was a true gift to have them there with him. For all he’d endured, he had done well to reach his eightieth year. Marya, his sons and grandchildren, Jon and his children. 

Now Jon’s hair was turning silver and what little Davos had left was white.

“We’ve been through a lot together, hey boy?”

Jon snorted as Davos called him boy, as usual. He was forty six now. “I reckon so. You’ll have quite the stories to tell Stannis.”

Davos studied him with sad eyes for a moment. “You remember what you said to Daenerys about that new world? You did it in the end. You made it.”

“She could of, too.”

“Maybe, but I knew it was going to be you, Jon. I took the step and never looked back. I always believed. Right from the start.”

A small grin appeared on Jon’s face. “When I rose from the dead?”

“Aye. That was a damn good indicator that you were something special.”

The pair laughed together for a moment. Davos was growing weaker with each second that ticked by. Jon had seen enough men die to know that he didn’t have much longer with his Hand, his friend. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to manage without you, Davos.” he told him plainly, gripping his hand. 

“The same way you have been these past few years. I’ve been a luxury, not a necessity,” Davos said dismissively. He had to be. Jon still had a long life of reigning left to do. He couldn’t collapse now. “Who’s going to be your new Hand?”

Jon swallowed as the thought pained him. “Tyrion.”

“A good choice. He’s been working for it since you sat your backside on the throne. He’ll serve you just fine.”

There was a silence between them. Jon was ashamed that he was wasting these precious minutes. He had so much to express, not enough words and even less time to do so. For years, he had wondered what he’d say to Ned if he could have the chance to say his goodbye again, what he’d say to Rhaegar if he’d ever got the chance to meet his phantom of a father.

“Thank you for being there when my father couldn’t be,” Jon wasn’t sure if he meant Ned or Rhaegar. It didn’t matter. “Thank you for guiding me, helping me, and believing in me even when hardly anyone else did. Thank you for doing the same for my children, loving them as though they were your own.”

Davos just sighed, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand. “I loved you like my own. And you made me proud. That’s all I could ever have asked. I should be thanking you.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“And I you, boy.”

Jon was frugal with his tears. He’d already given away so many. For Ned, Robb, Ygritte, Rickon, Daenerys. When Bran had admitted the truth to him about his mother, he’d gone and sobbed at the feet at her tomb. Then he’d ridden for the unmarked burials of his real siblings, killed as a result of the union that created him and mourned them for every year he’d missed. Lastly, he’d gone beneath Dragonstone and raged at Rhaegar Targaryen’s hidden grave. For siring him, for marrying his mother, for putting this horrendous burden on him for every single day of his life. 

He cried for Davos. Not at the funeral, in front of hundreds of nobles and commonfolk who’d come to pay their respects to the Hand. There, he’d comforted his children. 

Only days later, when his five eldest had left once more, when he'd finally coaxed Rickon and Shireen into sleep, did he shed tears. 

Jon was alone and the lone wolf dies, so the family he’d been raised with said. But was Jon a wolf or was he a dragon? He’d known the truth since he was a much younger man, but he was still no closer to finding the answer.

The man that sat on the Iron Throne was Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys was a dragon.

The man who shut his eyes and dreamed of Winterfell was Jon. Jon was a wolf.

There was only one thing to be done. Make peace with both and live with both, Davos said. Teach his offspring to do the same.

It was the family that really mattered.


End file.
